Not With A Bang
by mywarisalreadywon
Summary: Sam's world ended, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Eventual happy ending. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

**The world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. – T.S. Elliot**

* * *

When Sam was eighteen, the world was so vast and open to him that some days it scared him shitless at the same time that it excited every cell in his body.

His father still made him hunt. Dean still secretly babied him and tried to calm their fights. Sam just counted down the days until he could leave for college. He dutifully researched for hunts and did his homework, and Dean followed John's every order and picked up some of Sam's hunting responsibilities when he had a little more homework even though John explicitly told him not to. It was as close to rebellion as Dean would get, and Sam appreciated it.

It was just a run-of-the-mill vengeful spirit. It was cut and dry. Simple. Easy. Not even a three-man job. Salt and burn and go home. Until it wasn't. John didn't expect it to attack Sammy because it had only attacked older men before. Sam didn't expect it to knock his gun away before he could fire it. Dean didn't expect it to hurt this much, although he knew he probably should have anticipated it. As the spirit moved towards the now-unarmed, youngest Winchester, Dean didn't even hesitate. He never hesitated when it came to Sammy. He felt the ghost's pitchfork enter the soft flesh of his stomach, his skin and muscles burning as the object punctured him, and a gunshot sounded soon after, removing the ghost and his weapon. He heard Sam yell, heard the _whoosh_ of the fire as it claimed the grave and tore the spirit away from them, felt the soft, damp grass underneath of him as he collapsed. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, blood soaking through his t-shirt and jacket. He could hear Sam talking, but couldn't make out the words. A cough ripped itself from his chest, and blood bubbled past his lips. He knew there was internal damage, knew this was it, and only regretted that Sam had to see him fall. Someone was shaking him, lifting him, carrying him, but he was so tired. His eyes fell shut and he couldn't bring himself to open them again until someone roughly shook him again. He recognized the backseat of the Impala, and his hand tightly grasped Sam's.

"Love…you," he rasped, knowing he had to get the words out, had to tell Sam because God only knew how many times any of them had actually heard each other say the words. His vision was blurring at the edges as time both stopped and whirled rapidly around him. "Be…good…don't…fight…." He struggled to pull in air, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. "Leave…hunting," he whispered, the words more of a plea than anything else.

"Don't, Dean, no, stay with me," Sam sobbed, "stay with me, we're almost to the hospital. Hold on, you'll be okay, please, Dean. Don't leave me," Sam begged, "you promised you would never leave me."

Dean felt himself fading, so he mustered one last smile, reaching a shaking hand up to cup Sam's cheek and wipe away the tears flooding from his little brother's eyes.

"Goodnight, Sammy," he whispered, his body shuddering one time before going still just as they reached the hospital. The doctors pronounced him dead on arrival. One was kind enough to explain to them that there was just too much internal damage to even attempt to resuscitate him as it would likely have done more harm than good.

When Sam was eighteen, his world died in his arms, and he would have done and given anything to change it.

* * *

 **I'm feeling rather wicked today, so I'll just leave this here. I'm not done though, I promise this won't be this sad all the time, but I couldn't resist if for today.**


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't fight Sam on college. He had just lost one son to hunting; he couldn't bear to lose the other. They made a truce, but John eventually ended up burying himself in the job, pushing away his son to deal with his own misery and grief. Sam overheard him in the hospital when the doctors let them say goodbye to the mangled, lifeless corpse that had been Dean Winchester. John had sobbed out as he clutched his eldest, apologies falling freely from his lips. He lamented his loss, begging Mary to forgive him for inadvertently causing her son's death, her precious baby who he had never done right by. When he had emerged, he had walked past Sam to go claim the body legally. Sam had gone in to say his own goodbyes, but had found himself unable to say anything except 'I'm sorry'.

* * *

John gave Sam the keys to the Impala and never said Dean's name again. Sam understood that it hurt too much for him to see that car, the only thing Dean had ever asked for his entire life, and he himself could barely bring himself to sit in the driver's seat as he directed himself towards Stanford. The seat was broken in just the right way, cradling his body, and the steering wheel seemed to warm under his touch; it was almost as if the car itself realized what had been lost and wanted to assure him that she felt his missing presence just as deeply. Sam had packed all of Dean's things into a duffle bag and put the bag in the trunk, minus a few select items. He wore the amulet he had given to his older brother so long ago, and, on the really bad nights where he couldn't get Dean's pain-lined face out of his dreams, he hugged one of Dean's shirts tightly to his chest, the smell of leather and grease and _Dean_ soothing him enough that he could fall into a dreamless sleep and almost convince himself that Dean was nearby.

* * *

When he got to Stanford, he needed those shirts desperately, and often found himself curling up on the bench seat of the Impala, letting the only home he'd ever had allow him to sleep. Jess helped. Finding someone to distract him from the gaping hole in his chest was a welcome reprieve. He told her about Dean, about the good times and the bad times, about the times he swore he hated his older brother only to look back after a couple of days and wonder how he could ever have thought that. He told her about how badly it hurt knowing that he would never see Dean again, how it felt like he was being torn apart some days. He told her about how he had clutched to Dean as he took his last breaths, how that thought alone kept him up at night. He told her all of the annoying habits that Dean had, the ones he loved and hated and loved to hate. He told her about the Impala and how much Dean had loved her and treated her like she was alive, and explained to her that that was why he insisted upon taking such good care of the old girl. Eventually, it stopped hurting so much, it stopped feeling like he had lost a leg or an arm.

* * *

By that time, however, Sam had started to notice things. Little things. Nothing outright saying that something was going on, but enough that Sam could tell. Once, while Sam was getting ready to go out for drinks with some friends, the radio turned on and Creedence Clearwater Revival's Bad Moon Rising played through the speakers, the chorus warning Sam "don't go out tonight or its bound to take your life". Sam felt a little uneasy, especially since the radio had been off and across the room when it turned itself on. He felt uneasy enough that he called and told his friends he wasn't feeling great and would catch up with them later. The next morning, Jess told him about the awful car accident that happened just two blocks from the bar, on the same route that Sam would have taken had he gone. He said nothing to Jess, but stared uneasily at the radio, which stayed blessedly silent.

* * *

A week later, Sam had been walking towards his science building when his phone started screaming out the chorus of AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long. He stopped to try and turn it off just as the earth shook and a potted plant fell from an office above and hit the cement sidewalk directly in front of Sam. Had he kept walking, it would have hit him directly, and, judging by how hard it hit the ground, Sam figured it could have killed him. Then Jess called him to tell him that the radio was acting weird. She said it just turned itself on – and she said it was playing Jerry Lee Lewis's Great Balls Of Fire when he asked what song – but she hadn't kept listening as the stir fry she'd been making had caught on fire moments later. She reassured him that she was alright, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.

* * *

He noticed things moving around, but not like he had seen with vengeful spirits. There was no indication that whatever was going on was intending to hurt him, just the opposite in fact. He found his backpack organized and ready to go when he was sure he'd left everything out. He found a box of condoms that Jess swore she hadn't bought sitting on his nightstand the day he decided to bring up moving into a more intimate stage of their relationship. A blanket was draped over him when he fell asleep studying after Jess had already gone to bed. His beer mysteriously disappeared sometimes. Cans of SpaghettiOs and Lucky Charms appeared in the cabinets when Jess didn't buy them. Sam's alarm would go off even when he forgot to set it. The knife under his pillow moved to the drawer in the bedside table, where it was more concealed but just as easy to get to. If he attempted to organize the trunk, it would revert back to the completely organized but seemingly cluttered mess that Dean had always liked to keep it as.

* * *

After all of these little happenings, Sam came to a conclusion that he was not exactly comfortable with. He knew of only one person who simultaneously took care of him and teased him, and he couldn't bring himself to keep pretending he hadn't noticed anything.

"Dean, I know you're around here somewhere," he said, trying not to feel foolish for talking to an empty apartment. He waited, listening, watching for any kind of sign. Then his phone rang. The ringing turned into Hall and Oates's Private Eyes, the words echoing around the room. Sam forced himself not to smile, but knew he was failing because _Dean was here_ , being his normal annoying self and taunting his brother. Moments after the phone stopped, clear, bright laughter filled the room, the same laughter that had followed Sam around his whole life. Tears sprung to his eyes because he missed that laughter for three long years now.

"Dean?" he asked softly, refraining from spinning all around to look for his brother.

"Easy, tiger," a warm voice said from behind him.

* * *

 **Okay, so now things are going, didn't I tell you it wouldn't be sad? I promise to try and update soon, because the response I've gotten so far is just so incredibly uplifting.**


	3. Chapter 3

Dean looked the same. He had the same spiked dirty blond hair. He had the same devil-may-care, mischievous infuriating grin. He had the same vibrant green eyes that glowed with warmth as he looked at Sam. He wore the same worn and ripped jeans and Metallica t-shirt. He had the same dusting of freckles that fell across his tanned skin.

The wings were new though.

They fanned out behind him, a shimmering golden color at the top fading down to white at the bottom. They were big, impossible for Dean to hide, and seemed to give off a soft, warm glow that colored the air around Dean. Reaching out to touch the new editions to his brother, Sam discovered that the feathers were as soft as velvet and smooth as silk. Dean let him process the information, let him explore what hadn't been there the last time they saw each other. He shifted the appendages slightly, relaxing under Sam's soft touches.

"How…what?" Sam stuttered, his gaze darting to meet Dean's.

"I got a job," Dean said, shrugging and flopping onto the couch.

"But –"

"How about I just tell you everything so that you don't get confused?" Dean asked, holding up a hand. He patted the seat beside him and Sam tucked himself close. He didn't care so much about acting his age when he just found out his brother never really let him and was actually here, and tangible and _home_. He inadvertently reminded Dean of how he had been when he was younger, always cuddling up to him when it was time for bed and he agreed to tell him a bedtime story. Sam laid his head on Dean's shoulder, looking up to him just like he had when he was six.

"Alright, so, when I died, I went to the light, just like a good little hunter."

* * *

 _It was kind of surprising that there actually was a light. He ignored it for the time being, staying with Sam and his father. He desperately wished that he could comfort them, that he could get just one more chance, but he knew it wouldn't happen. He watched them say goodbye to him, his heart aching as his father finally said everything he'd always wanted and needed to hear. He didn't care that it was too late. All he cared about was that his father finally said it. Then he'd gotten a weird feeling. He turned around, and there was a young woman with short black hair watching him. No one could see him, but she looked at him in a way that he knew she saw him._

 _"Dean," she said, smiling gently._

 _"Who are you?" he demanded, "and how can you see me?"_

 _"My name is Tessa," she said, walking closer. "And I think you already know the answer to that."_

 _"You're a reaper," he said quietly, looking back to the door where Sam had disappeared._

 _"Yes," she confirmed, putting a consoling hand on his arm._

 _"I'm not ready. They still need me," he pleaded._

 _"Your fight is over," she said, not unkindly, "soldiers fall every day, Dean."_

 _"I know," he sighed, "but how am I supposed to watch out for them? How am I supposed to keep Sam safe?" A small cough sounded nearby, and Dean looked over to see a scruffy little man who looked completely exhausted standing nearby._

 _"I'll take over here, Tessa," he said, smiling at her. She narrowed her eyes, but nodded._

 _"I'll see you around, Dean," she said, walking away. Dean looked back at the little man with wide eyes._

 _"Who are_ you _?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. The man laughed softly._

 _"I'm Chuck," he said, "and I'm here to offer you a job."_

 _"What kind of job?"_

 _"Well, I heard you talking with Tessa and…well, how would you like to watch out for Sam and a few other people for the rest of their natural lives?" he asked, "I would offer just Sam, but I can't just give you one person. The minimum that I can swing is five, but I can make sure that they're all people you care about if you'd like."_

 _"I…" he thought about it. "Deal." Chuck smiled._

 _"Great, I'll start you right after we finish with training. It shouldn't take long, and may I be the first to say, welcome to Guardian Angel 101," he said, holding out a hand. Dean took it, and the light was back._

* * *

"That's why you've been using the radio and stuff to warm me?" Sam interrupted.

"Yeah, one of the big rules is that we really aren't supposed to reveal ourselves, but we can if one of our charges – and a charge, so not just some random friend or spouse or whatever – calls out our name specifically. We're allowed to hint to you, but we can't tell you and can't show ourselves until you confirm our identity. I knew you'd appreciate the personal touches though," Dean said, winking.

"Only you would use Jerry Lee Lewis."

"Oh hush, you," Dean chuckled, leaning his head against Sam's.

"You didn't break your promise."

"No," Dean agreed, "and as long as I'm around, ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you." Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, closing his eyes as Dean's presence relaxed him. Dean put his arm around Sam's shoulders, running his fingers through the hair that had only gotten longer throughout the years.

"You need a haircut."

"Shut up," Sam huffed. Dean just chuckled, and damn if that wasn't just one of the nicest sounds Sam had ever heard.

"Easy," Dean soothed, "I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here, Sammy." Dean's soft voice echoed in his mind as he pressed tightly up against his big brother. Sleep beckoned as one large wing wrapped around him, enfolding him in warmth and protection.

* * *

He woke up when Jess came home, looking around to find himself alone on the couch, a blanket covering where he was sure a wing had been. He wondered if maybe he had dreamed it all, if Dean had just been a result of his exhausted and stressed mind. He stood up, and only then realized that the amulet around his neck was no longer there. Looking around for it, he instead discovered a single golden feather under the pillow. A grin covered his face. He hadn't dreamed it. Dean took his amulet back because he didn't want Sam to just remember him; he planned on sticking around as long as he could. He slipped the feather into his pocket, his heart lighter than it had been in so very long. He headed to the kitchen to help Jess with dinner.

* * *

He left little things around for Dean. A slice of pie here, a cup of coffee there, occasionally a bacon cheeseburger when he was going to bed. Dean helped out with dishes and laundry, and Sam blamed it on the fact that Dean was horrible at just sitting around relaxing and doing nothing. Jess thought it was Sam doing it all, and Dean seemed content to let him take the credit. Late at night, when Sam was studying and Jess was in bed, Dean made himself visible and helped Sam to study just like he had when they were little. When Sam's nightmares were bad, Dean was right there by his side, soothing him until he fell back asleep. Dean would wrap his wings around Sam, radiating warmth and safety as Sam rested. Dean took care of him, and Sam felt safe knowing Dean ws always right there protecting him.


	4. Chapter 4

While he devoted most of his time to keeping an eye on Sam, Dean had more people to protect than just Sam. He watched over a total of six charges, and some were more trouble than others, much to his despair.

* * *

Jim Murphy was one of his lower risk charges even though he was a part time hunter. He led a mostly quiet life, preaching and teaching Sunday school. Dean found some peace in the occasional sermon, and personally enjoyed the stories about angels. He didn't often have to rush out to Blue Earth to save the older man; most of the time it was flying out to ensure that the black ice didn't trip him up, or make sure that the candles were all blown out for the night. Case in point – one lone candle that wasn't blown out caught on a curtain. Jim, not realizing what was happening behind him, continued his process of locking up the church. Briefly wondering how Jim couldn't spell the fire, Dean extended his wings and prepared to save his charge. When Jim finally turned around, he saw the flames and froze in his panic. Dean flapped his large wings once, the powerful wind extinguishing the small fire. He heard the prayer slip past the preacher's lips and smiled to himself. He couldn't tell Jim who he was, but he could give him a little hint. He let his shadow become visible; mimicking a pose from a painting he'd seen before of Michael. Jim's eyes widened as he saw the image, and Dean made it disappear again and left Jim with only the knowledge of his existence.

* * *

Missouri Mosely wasn't fooled and immediately called him out. Since she called him by his name, he was allowed to show himself to her. He wasn't called to her for anything dangerous except for one or two close calls involving bad drivers, but he was often visiting her for coffee and cookies. Sometimes he sat in on her readings, if only for a few laughs. Once, while he was laughing particularly hard at this woman who came in, (she wanted to know if her son was in a gang because he was always hanging out with friends and came home late and never told her exactly what he was doing – he just had a girlfriend and was bumping and grinding with her constantly which just made Dean laugh the whole session long) Missouri threatened to tell the lady about all of Dean's little secrets. The woman asked who this Dean was and Missouri just told her that it was her guardian angel, an annoying sweetheart who was going to get his feathery ass whooped. She was occasionally his therapist, when he needed to rant or just get his feelings out but didn't feel like he could go to Sam.

* * *

Bobby required a bit more watching as an active hunter. Being in danger fairly often meant that Bobby was sorely in need of an angel watching his back. He never suspected Dean's presence, or, at least, Dean was pretty sure he didn't. He held off spirits, smacked down werewolves, and distracted witches so that Bobby could get his work done. Once, while hunting a wendigo with his charge, Dean heard it calling out to Bobby with his own voice. He bristled, furious that the monster would try and use him as if Bobby didn't already know he was dead. He jumped in front of Bobby, taking the monster and slamming it to the ground with a vengeance. He was pretty sure Bobby could see a glow holding down the creature, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He pressed a hand to the beast's head and let lose some of his grace to attack the withered soul that was clinging to a twisted kind of life within the body below him. His grace quickly destroyed the life, leaving his charge safely out of danger. Bobby torched the body and went home, but Dean could already see the gears turning in his head.

* * *

A summoning ritual. Dean should have known he'd use a summoning ritual. It wouldn't even work technically because it wasn't summoning him specifically. But he hated to see Bobby disappointed. So off he went, but instead of appearing in the little circle where he was supposed to appear, he walked in through the front door. Bobby fired the shotgun before even thinking about who it was coming into his house. It stung, but he waved a hand and the buckshot let itself out of him fairly easily. Bobby froze and Dean saw the shock and disbelief on his face.

"What?" he asked, "You expected _me_ to follow the rules?" he laughed, tilting his head and grinning.

"You're –"

"I'm what? Dead?"

"What are you?" the older man growled, distrust radiating off of him.

"Not a demon so don't even think about throwing that holy water on me." Really, he just didn't feel like getting wet right now. "You didn't even do the summoning ritual right."

"What are you?" Bobby demanded, "tell me or I'll –"

"You'll what?" Dean interrupted, "I've made it through all of the tricks and traps and defenses that you've set up, buckshot hurt me for all of two seconds, and there's nothing in this house that can kill me. Bobby, if I was here to kill you, why would I kill that wendigo instead of just letting it kill you and do the job for me? Why would I have this huge-ass pair of wings if I wasn't your friggin' guardian angel?" Bobby stared silently at him for a moment, considering all that Dean had just told him.

"It's really you?" he asked.

"Yeah, Bobby, it's really me," he sighed.

"You idjit." He was about to come up with a snappy retort, but found himself being hugged. His irritation gave way to affectionate annoyance as he hugged his sometimes-father back. Bobby pulled away after a moment, and Dean found himself being splashed in the face with holy water.

Damn it.

* * *

John was probably his toughest charge. Constantly putting himself into immediate danger, his father seemed to have no regard for his own safety. He took out monsters wherever he would to keep his father safe, but most of the time there was only so much he could do without fully exposing himself. He left little calling cards – changing the radio station, drinking his coffee and booze, stealing the bacon off of his cheeseburgers – in the hopes that John would recognize him like Sam did. He wasn't that lucky though. John thought he was being haunted. When the salt lines didn't seem to be working, he called Missouri, who just laughed and told him not to worry. That, of course, only made him worry more. Dean made his presence more pronounced. He cleaned the guns, prepared the bags for hunts, and protected his father on jobs where he really should have had a partner. John only made the connection when Dean snuck a piece of pie onto the table John was sitting at one evening. In Dean's defense, it _was_ January 24th and he _did_ want some cherry pie.

"Dean," John whispered, catching sight of the date and the dessert. The diner was mostly empty, and no one noticed the man in the corner booth having a small mental breakdown. The bell over the door chimed, but no one noticed the newcomer, least of all John, until he sat down across form the eldest Winchester and pulled the pie closer. John's head snapped up and he found himself looking into deep green eyes surrounded by freckles. A wide grin covered the man's face, familiar spiked blond hair topping his head.

"So," he started, "it took you long enough to figure it out," he huffed, taking a bite of the pie.

"My son is dead."

"Technically speaking, of course."

"What are you and why are you using my son?" John growled, narrowing his eyes.

"You know, I'm getting some déjà vu here," Dean sighed.

"If you don't tell me what you want –"

"Missouri told you not to worry for a reason," Dean said, pointedly, "I'm your son."

"I salted and burned my son's body."

"And I got put back together," Dean huffed, waving a hand in the air to dismiss the topic. John opened his mouth again but Dean interrupted.

"Guardian angel," he said, finishing the pie.

"What?"

"That's what I am. I got the job offer when I died."

"And you –"

"Protect you. And Sammy. And Missouri. Which is why she told you not to worry."

"Oh."

"So if you need me, just send up a quick thought. I'll hear it," he said, standing up. John followed suit and yanked him into a hug, much to Dean's amusement. Apparently all he had to do to get some affection out of his father was die.

"Take care," John ordered gruffly; Dean heard the sentiment behind it and grinned.

"I'll see you around, dad," he said, grinning.

* * *

Dean was hard to piss off in most situations, but not when his family was threatened. Jess was his newest charge, but he already counted her as family after helping Sam pick out a ring for her. So when he found her being threatened, he didn't really appreciate it. He felt it in the air, a slight current of electricity coursing through the particles of matter surrounding him. It made his nerves tingle. He felt her fear, and knew that she was alone because he was with Sam and she said she was just going to watch a movie while he was gone. Instantly flying back to the apartment, he was surprised to find everything quiet. He'd always hated November second, it always gave him a creepy feeling all day, but this time felt different. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He cloaked himself in darkness and investigated every room, noticing that the feeling got worse the closer he got to the bedroom. He moved through the doorway, freezing as he saw a shadowy figure standing by Jess whispering to her. He saw the writing mass of black under the man's skin, and caught a glimpse of yellow eyes in the window. Anger burned through his veins and he yanked the demon back from her, moving between them as he made himself visible. His wings flared out behind him, fluffing up with his anger.

"You don't get to touch her," he growled, watching the demon's eyes widen.

"An angel," he gasped softly. Dean let his grace flow to his hands, unable to suppress his grin and the words filling his mouth.

"Hello. My name is Dean Winchester. You killed my mother. Prepare to die."

* * *

 **Bonus points to anyone who can tell me the line without looking it up.**


End file.
